


Bleed as it Grows

by transfixeddream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transfixeddream/pseuds/transfixeddream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Hell, Sam can't bring himself to hold a razor to his face. So he lets his hair grow.</p><p>Also posted <a href="http://transfixeddream.livejournal.com/106513.html">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleed as it Grows

Somewhere in Utah Dean stops to get gas, but freezes up as he turns to unbuckle his seatbelt. Sam's rereading the write-up of their next case in a newspaper, as if the fourteenth time will somehow shed new light on how an entire family can be murdered in precisely the same way, at precisely the same time, in four different locations.

Sam's interest is waning during this read, and now he can feel the pierce of Dean's eyes on him. Sam turns to him, and Dean looks away just as quickly in response, knows he's been caught.

"What?" Sam asks. When Dean doesn't answer, just digs his wallet from his back pocket, Sam presses: " _What_?" He wipes at his mouth. "Is there something on my face or something?"

Snorting, Dean mutters, "Something." He clears his throat then, hand waving. "S'nothing. Just, getting a bit of fuzz on you, Sammy."

Dean doesn't give Sam time to respond, is out of the car without another beat. Sam runs his hand over his cheek and frowns, feels the bristle of hair there. Longer than he's used to--that is to say, there's hair there period--but it's nothing major, barely longer than stubble.

He shakes it off as just another weird thing Dean focuses on lately to avoid looking at the big picture. He turns his attention back to the case at hand, picking up where he left off, trying to think of other options apart from witches that Dean called two hundred miles back. Dean's no doubt on the money with this one, but Sam works his brain anyway, grappling at things they've faced and things Dad faced, all while avoiding that box that says _do not open_.

*

It's witches--or more accurately, warlocks--sure enough, and they're not a friendly bunch. Not that Sam assumed anybody capable of slaughtering a family could be friendly, but it's difficult to take them down. Dean ends up with a sliced arm, and Sam gets bruised from the table flung at him, but they get them in the end.

At the motel, Sam watches as Dean gets the supplies out, then takes off his shirt to assess the damage done. Sam makes out a brilliant red line racing up the length of Dean's forearm and jerks his head around immediately. He focuses on the blue diamonds that make up this room's wallpaper, navy against a lighter shade.

Sam's bones hurt, his body sore and most likely bruised come morning, but he's not cut, and he's not bleeding. He can handle it.

*

They get a greasy breakfast at a mom and pop diner on their way out of a town a couple days later. There's the whole works: eggs and bacon and sausages and hash browns and toast, side of coffee for Dean, just water for Sam. Dean downs it with a gusto, trying to stuff whole links of sausage into his mouth and managing to fit most of it in.

Sam eats it slower, not feeling particularly hungry this morning. He doesn't like the way the eggs taste, cooked too long and drenched in grease, so he grabs the ketchup, easy squirt bottle pumping it out in a mound of red. Sam feels even less hungry at the sight, glances to where Dean's adding pepper to his own and generally oblivious to Sam right now. It's an oblivion that will only last until he notices that Sam's eaten all of two hash browns and half a slice of bacon.

His fork cuts through the egg with a bit of effort, the hard bottom prompting him to saw at it with the side. Sam sinks his prongs into half the egg and raises it up to his mouth, then gets distracted by Dean's next attempt at shoving a sausage into his mouth and lets it fall. The plate makes a loud clatter as the fork hits it, and Dean almost swallows his sausage whole in response.

"Dude," Dean hisses once he's taken a gulp of coffee. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Sam says immediately, wiping the ketchup from his lip. Dean quirks an eyebrow and Sam feels suddenly defensive. "What?"

Dean brings his thumb to his chin and gestures. "You've got a l'il--on your beard."

"It's not a beard," Sam says immediately, because it's _not_ , a quarter of an inch at most.

"Whatever you say, man," Dean says, and goes back to eating his food. Sam wipes at his face with a napkin.

*

Sam doesn't like to be alone much, not anymore. Growing up he despised living in Dean's back pocket, unable to even breathe without his brother hearing, noticing every little movement he'd make. Stanford was a blessing for him, in that he was able to have time to himself, to do nothing but read or watch the TV he wanted to watch or think.

Now thinking's the enemy. Thinking too hard stirs up memories, that box in his head slowly opening up to reveal itself. It's a problem, one Sam does his best to avoid by researching cases he knows will go nowhere, or running up the pay-per-view bill at the motel. Any other time, Dean's there with him and he can take Sam's mind off of anything.

Except Dean's out right now, digging up dirt on their most recent dearly deceased, and Sam's going stir-crazy. His laptop's providing little distraction and not even porn is working, and Lucifer's whispering in his ear: _you dir-ty boy, look at what you did_.

Sam claws at his hair, nails scraping into his scalp and trailing down the sides of his face, leaving smooth hair for coarse, and Sam gets an idea. A horrible idea. But then Michael's laugh is echoing in his skull and he thinks _fuck it_ and gets up from his bed and roots in one of their duffels.

He pulls out the cream first, red and black can that Dean got at a dollar store, and then he finds the container where Dean keeps his razors. Sam draws it out slowly, flipping the plastic case over in his hands, and then he opens it, pulls one blade out.

It turns slowly in his hand, the molded plastic fitting nicely between his fingers. And then the blade catches on the light, and Sam can feel it slice across his skin, digging in deep and making rivers of blood, scarlet flowing over his fingertips.

Sam drops the razor with a start and tosses everything back into the bag. He should've known. Should've known that with the hesitance that he carries a blade, he'd not be able to use these. He should've known. He should've known.

He goes to his bed and shoves his head into the pillow, eyes pressed shut in the hope that sleep will drown out the screams.

It only makes them louder.

*

"All I'm saying," Dean's saying, "is that it gets much longer, all you'll be able to pass for is a lumberjack. Witnesses are gonna start thinking we're bums playing dress-up."

"Shut up, Dean," Sam bites back, feeling suddenly fourteen again and having his jerk brother pulling the tips of his hair, saying he's gonna look like a girl one of these days.

The thing is that deep down, Sam knows Dean is right. It's getting longer now, and messier, ungroomed and wild. It's getting itchier, too. Sam doesn't know how Dad always managed to wear his like this. The deeper south they go, the more he sweats, face always hot and itchy, Sam always scratching irritably under his chin.

"I just don't see why you don't at least trim it," Dean continues.

Sam bites down on his cheek to keep from saying, _I can't! I can't, Dean! I can't goddamn hold a blade, how the fuck do you want me to shave?_ He keeps his gaze focused on the houses moving past, tugs at the collar of his suit. "And I don't see why you don't just shut up about it," Sam says back.

It earns him an incredulous look from Dean and Metallica turned up loud enough to shatter his skull, but Sam doesn't care. He likes the music.

*

They're at an antique store specializing in mystical artifacts when Sam catches a glimpse of a man in a window as he's walking past it. It's not until he takes a step back that he notices the golden, decorated frame and the man staring back at him, curious expression on his face.

He looks pale, bags under his eyes, and he has the thick start to a full beard. Sam's never seen him before in his life.

Behind the man, Lucifer reaches forward and rips his throat out, and Sam looks down at the floor and sees the mess of skin and bone and blood. He presses a hand to his neck and feels relief at the prickle of hair.

*

"I _know_ , Bob--" Dean breaks off when Sam comes out of the bathroom, skin warm and clean. His eyes lock on Sam's face, and Sam's had time to learn Dean inside and out, knows exactly what the small twitch in the corner of his lip means. Dean's been talking about him. "Yeah, alright, call me if you hear anything. Right, thanks. Yeah, bye."

Dean hangs up and Sam digs through what's left of his clean clothes for something to wear. "That Bobby?" he asks, even though he already knows even despite Dean's slip up--they're not exactly overflowing with contacts these days.

"Yeah," Dean says. Sam hears the springs of the squeaky bed creak as Dean sits down on it. "I was thinking, maybe once you get dressed--tacos? Local said there's a nice place downtown for 'em."

No crack at the fact Sam's beard is still where it is, no joke about how Sam's one ill-advised winter hat away from being shipped off to Canada. Sam realizes with a sickening conclusion that Dean hasn't mentioned Sam's facial hair in days, last time Sam remembers was him playing it up as a joke to a kid who wouldn't stop staring. That was three days ago. And it was nearly a week before that since Dean mentioned it when they were alone.

Sam swallows tightly.

Dean's given up on talking about the beard, almost like he's grown to the understanding that Sam's keeping it. Like it's going to be a piece of Sam forever, and it's _not_.

When Sam presses his eyes closed, he sees fire and blood and Lucifer's face--his _real_ face.

"Sam?"

When Sam opens his eyes, he just sees the concern on his brother's face.

"Yeah," Sam says. "Sounds great."

It's not going to be a piece of Sam forever. He's not going to let it.

*

After what may be the easiest salt and burn they've ever had, Dean sits with his back against the motel bed, legs stretched out on the floor, and sips at a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He goes at it slow, thoughtfully, much easier than Sam used to see him drink it.

Sam's wrists feel itchy, his fingers restless. He had planned for the ghost to put up a fight, or for them to burn the bones only to find out there was a piece of him somewhere else. Anything that would've kept his mind occupied.

Now he's slowly going crazy, surfing the net for nothing and aware of Dean's gaze on him. He's fucking hot, too, the motel without air-conditioning and a dead heat floating through the window. It makes his face sweat, his skin itch, and he scratches at it impatiently, glances over to see Dean look at him.

And Dean, Dean just smiles at him. A happy, quiet, victorious smile, one that's undoubtedly proud of how Sam managed to put an end to the poltergeist quickly and give them this moment of leisure. Sam can't help but take it as something else, his mind twisting it into a smug, proud smirk, and it's no longer his brother smiling at him. It's a victory smile, but one that says _I managed to fuck you up in just one more way, Sammy_.

"I need to shave," Sam says abruptly, standing just as fast. Dean--the real Dean--frowns, confused as sin.

"Shave?" he asks, like it's a new concept.

"Yeah," is all Sam says as he gets the stuff, careful not to look too carefully at the razors as he heads into the bathroom.

He lathers himself up with the cream, runs the hot water and fills the sink until it's scalding. He reaches for the box of razors and topples the shaving cream in the process, metal can crashing to the floor. Sam cringes at the noise and looks at himself in the mirror, at the mix of brilliant white and dirty brown covering his lower face.

"Sam? You okay in there?"

Sam dips his finger into the water and leaves it there for a second, letting the burn calm him, and then he says, "Yeah."

He gets the razor out of its case easy enough. He doesn't spare it a look before he dips it into the water and presses it to the side of his face. Through the mirror he watches as he slowly brings it down, and Sam can feel it--can feel the sharpness of the blade on his skin, the way it glides through the hair. In the mirror, he sees how it glides through his skin, the way the blade digs into him and pulls him apart, ripping his skin away piece by piece.

Sam startles and feels the sharp scrape of pain, looks in the mirror to see the bright red escaping from his skin and coloring the foam pink. Sam drops the razor like it's on fire, hand shaking, and he stumbles back, yells out when he hits solid heat, and then his brother's hands are on him, wrapping around his wrists like cuffs, tight around Sam's bones.

Dean says in his calm, low voice, "It's okay, Sam, c'mon, calm down. I gotcha, I gotcha."

*

Dean cleans him up, gentle swipes of a face cloth and Sam's transported back to his first hunt, how bad he was shaking after getting a couple light cuts. How Dean cleaned them with disinfectant and Sam hissed each time, no matter what.

Dean dabs at the cut Sam gave himself, a short, thin sliver of a thing, nothing Sam needed to freak out over. He looks weird now, thick beard and one small patch of smooth skin. Looks weirder than usual, anyway.

"What's going on with you, Sam?" Dean murmurs as he finishes up.

Behind Dean, Lucifer's there, face lit up and twisted. _Go on, Sammy. Tell big brother all about the scary monsters_.

Sam swallows and shuts his eyes, and when he opens them again, Lucifer's gone. And then Sam follows his advice.

*

When Sam wakes up, Dean's not in his bed. There's a note on the nightstand next to his bed that he doesn't bother to read, because Dean always writes the same things, and the air is cool on his skin.

He takes his time getting up, figures if Dean's gone for coffee it could take a while. He goes into the bathroom, honestly feeling a little wary, and starts to brush his teeth. He spits the toothpaste out before looking up in the mirror, and the Sam that stares back at him is one he hasn't seen in months.

Smooth skin of his face, and Sam can even make out the mole on his chin. He's terrified to touch, mind running circles around the idea. He touches, and he will bleed. Or Lucifer will appear, will rip out his throat like he loves to do, will smile and tear off Sam's face. But then Sam can't resist, and the pads of his fingers only feel warm skin.

"Sam? You up?" Dean calls, answering the question before Sam can even ask it. Dean. Of course.

Dean's holding a tray of coffee and a bag of doughnuts when Sam exits the bathroom, and he smiles unabashedly at the look Sam gives him. Sam feels dumbstruck.

"Did you--? How--?"

Dean shrugs and sets down their breakfast. "You may dream a lot, Sam, but you sleep like a goddamn log." He runs his hand over his face. "I just, I figured it'd be easier if you--just couldn't see it. Feel it."

Sam's body is filled with more warmth than he knows what to deal with. He's torn between crossing the room and squeezing the life out of his brother and just standing where he is, gaping. Somehow, his body chooses to do the latter. He nods jerkily and says, "I, um. Thanks. Just--thank you."

"Don't mention it," Dean says, face cracking into a small smirk. "Besides, I had to see for myself if my brother was still under all that hair."

And Sam laughs at that, feels the way his chest expands with it, hears the way Lucifer laughs right along with him. Right now, he doesn't care.

Right now, he feels more like himself than he has in a long, long while.


End file.
